


Schilderwald

by coriane



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M, Kidnapping, Pining, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, overprotective mothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriane/pseuds/coriane
Summary: After a very, very embarrassing night involving you, too much alcohol and your very handsome— very engaged — boss, you finally have an excuse to stop doing fieldwork. Giving you more time to spend with your beloved and very stable desk to do paperwork… And meddling with reports as well as snooping through confidential records.And then said boss comes swooping in and sweeping you off to America to save humanity from a megalomaniac with questionable plans for the wizarding world — putting you in a universe of confusion when he gets a little too close.Also, there’s his younger brother whose girlfriend-slash-scary-American-Auror just kidnapped you and demanded that you help her capture said megalomaniac.Yes, you’re very puzzled. If someone could just tell you what’s going on, thanks—





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> summary: basically, you’re really freaking confused.

Oh god. Someone,  _please_  tell you how you got here. 

Your wrists are getting rope burns from squirming too much (you might’ve made a joke about aha,  _kinky,_ if you weren’t so confused), and you can probably break them— Surprise surprise, all those years forced to do fieldwork wasn’t so useless after all, you can probably untie the knot—

“Hi,” a woman abruptly says as she bends down in front of you. Everything about this woman is imitading— Leather jacket, short hair, dark—  _fierce_ eyes. And oh, that wand pointing at you. The hand is firm and the position is solid. 

“Hi?” you attempt, but it comes out like the squeal of a dying whale and ends in a questioning tone.

“My name is Tina Goldstein. I’m an American Auror,” she says. “And I need you to help me catch Grindelwald—”

Your eyebrows shoot up so high you suspect they might have found God. 

“Wait, wait wait,” a male voice joins the conversation. A man with tousled red-hair and a face dusted with freckles holds up his hands. He’s cute, in an unassuming way. “Shouldn’t we untie her first?” he asks. “We are, uh, asking her for help…”

“Newt,” the woman— Tina, Tina Goldstein begins. Her head is cocked and her words are said very deliberately. “We still don’t know if she’s a threat—”

“Uh,” you wave awkwardly. “I’m still here?” 

Two pairs of eyes find you. Then to Tina. Who sighs with a hint of murder.

Clearing her throat, she starts again, “As Mr. Scamander was saying, we are in need of your help to capture the dark wizard Grindelwald and find a boy named Credence Barebone.” She looks at you with those fierce eyes of hers, glittering with something like trapped firelight. 

She had you lost at the ‘help’ part. Weren’t you already helping? Why did she think you of all people could help? Also— “Just a question,” you say as they both nod. “Scamander, as in—  _Theseus Scamander?”_

The man looks mildly surprised. Boyish features pulled into puzzlement. “You know him? He’s my brother.”

If anything, you’re name has now just become Perpetual State of Confusion.

x

**EIGHTEEN DAYS EARLIER**

Hot breath against the side of your neck, hands threaded into your hair and pulling you against him. Teeth bite, scraping against the skin of your neck, hard and bruising, you scrabble for a grip on his shoulders, pulling at the broad shoulders and the crisp shirt jacket.

Teeth clang against yours and he pulls on your hair — gentle enough not to hurt but firm enough to let you know what he wants. Slipping his leg between yours, he shoves you forward for a few quick steps and hauls you up against the wall. Moaning, you ball up the edge of his shirt as he continues to ravage your mouth. Your lungs burn, and abruptly you realize this is  _wrong_  as you push away against his chest—

Somewhere distantly, a door slams open followed by a few angry voices.

_“Of all the people you could possibly ask, Theseus—“_

_“No, no, it has to be her, she’s the only one I trust with stuff like this—“_

And then the door to the records room slam open, and with an ungraceful yelp, you tip backwards in your chair as you try to stack your papers into a pile before tumbling onto the ground. You take a pile papers down with you, and nervously, you give the one in front of you a shifty glance before snatching it off the ground.

“Uh, hi?” you offer, clutching the paper to your chest as you resist the urge to look at the pile of scattered paper around you.  _Ah, you shouldn’t have been meddling with those reports on the Nundu terrorizing muggle hunters today—_

Torquil Travers gives you a look of immense resentment and promptly heads out the door with a raised chin and an air of pompous superiority. You narrow your eyes and the next thing you hear is a sound of yelped pain.

“I didn’t train you in wandless magic just to have you terrorizing coworkers, [Name].” 

You turn your head and raise it toward him. “I’ve known how for—” You shut your mouth with an audible click and offer him the most innocent smile you can. “Sir, yes sir,” you say, automatically resorting to the sentence because of the awkwardness.  _Ha, anything to get out of getting reassigned to field ops._

Theseus Scamander raises an eyebrow before his eyes crinkle and he gives you a fond smile. “Easy there,” he teases you. “We both know you don’t work for me anymore.”

And thank the everloving God for that— You weren’t one for crushes, and infatuations came and left with the blink of an eye. But  _Theseus— Theseus Scamander:_ renowned world hero, charismatic (bastard with a sadistic work streak) Auror who can get just about anyone to compromise for him is completely different. And the fact that he was those things wasn’t even the thick of why you adored him. It was because of  _Theseus_ , and as cliche as it was, it was because of the passion he held in his work, the midnight oil you burned together and him diving desperately into any situation to save lives. 

Having a crush on him was sort of like being in love with a celebrity (yes, you had a healthy dose of muggle media as a child) when you were a teenager and calculating the age difference because  _ha_ — As if  _that_  was the biggest obstacle.

(Also, there was also Christmas Party last year where you had gotten too bold, too drunk and— Well, let’s not have a repeat of that.)

You smile, if a little dryly. “Yes, which is why you’re dropping by  _here_ , a full four floors away from  _Law Enforcement_.”

“Hey,” he protests good-naturedly as he leans down and you freeze, for a second, until he wraps his long fingers around your forearm and pulls you up. “Can’t I visit an ex-subordinate every now and then?”

_Why don’t you visit the guy who got demoted because you caught him slacking off on the job every now and then, too?_

You brush him off, ignoring the red shade your face was slowly adopting. “If you wanted me to find something, you can just, uh, sent me a letter.”

He tucks his hands into his pocket and leans onto your desk as you finally take out your wand and resettle your chair, as well as all of the scattered paper across the floor, making sure to place the illegals ones as far away from Theseus as possible.

“You see, I need your help for some… Confidential matters,” he tells you. 

You cross your arms. “I don’t do fieldwork anymore, boss. Sorry, maybe ask… I dunno, Wesley from your  _own_ department?” 

He laughed and returns his gaze to you. He shifts, and the afternoon light from the window bathes him in soft light. “Travers said the same thing, you know,” he says lightly. “But the only one I can trust to do this is  _you_.”

Your eyes narrow. “If I say no?”

Humming good-naturedly, Theseus walks around you and towards the other side of the table in the Record’s Office. Before you can protest, he reads one off. “ _Potential Obscurus-Containing Households,_  do you know what happens to people who possess confidential records outside of their jurisdiction?” He waves the paper around.

A moment of silence.

You brighten. “Does that mean you’ll finally fire me?” 

“ _[Name].”_

You really wish he would stop saying your name like that—

“Oh wait,” you suddenly realize. “I could get stuffed in Azkaban for that.” 

“[ _Name]_ ,” he says again. “I’m asking this of you because I trust you. I know you despise fieldwork and what happened— Is… Well… But I  _need_  to know that someone I can count on to keep my back is on this mission.”

Oh dear, your black little heart actually does a little flip at those words.

But— You’re not stupid. There are a thousand people out there who are more qualified than you are, who can be counted on not to let their emotions affect their work and people who don’t kiss their engaged boss at a Christmas Party because they’re drunk. Being in love with Theseus— Being in love with a  _taken_  man had consequences and that night last year you told yourself that you weren’t going to make someone else suffer because of you and requested for a transfer. 

Though, then again, were you really going to refuse him? Theseus,  _hand on your waist, hand on your elbow as he tries to teach you wandless magic in a hushed murmur by your ear._ Theseus, who jumps into danger without a second thought because of that proud, righteous justice—

You owe him this. Not just because of that kiss, but for all the years he’s been looking out for you and all the things he’s taught you.

“Okay,” you say, chin raised, already dreading whatever’s coming. “I’ll help you.”

He beamed and lifts himself up from his desk to his full height. “Splendid,” he says and begins towards the door. Not before wrapping his hand around your wrist and pulling you with him.

You flail. “What’s this,” you gesture at the hand holding your wrist.

He gives you a stare. “I told you, it’s an operation of the highest degree of confidentiality—”

“Oh, did you now? I must’ve missed it.”

“—And I can’t discuss it with you until we’re in a secure location where I can be sure there is no third party.”

You give him a glare. “I  _do_  understand protocols— I have been working here for the last eight years. But  _why_  are you gripping my wrist like you’re trying to apply for a position as a human handcuff?”

He gives you a wicked stare that makes you weak at the knee. You stumble a bit, but Theseus just releases your hand lightning fast to catch you at the shoulders then return to gripping it. “So you can’t run.”

“ _What?”_  You give him a stare of utter betrayal.  _No, nope, nope— Sweet Merry Lewis this was a mistake._  “You know,” you say weakly as he continues to smile. “I think I hear my mother calling for me.”

All coherent thought fades as he hushes you with a finger to the lips (and hear that— it’s you dying yonder) and all your retreat-route planning activities cease entirely. 

The two of you step into the elevator. There are dozens of people, as usual, making you unnecessarily close to Theseus. Due to your small height, your temple is basically pressed against his chest. You lower your head, hair falling into your face as Theseus remains tall with back-straight confidence as one of his hands are in his pocket while another continues captivity over your wrist. 

 _I should stop reading muggle romance novels,_ is what you manage to take away from your elevator ride together.

Immediately, the chatter of the Law Enforcement Dept. greet you, and the extrovert inside you bloom as you see a few familiar faces you haven’t seen in a while. Admittedly, you’d been less than sad when you were finally taken off the field ops. roster and given a stable desk jockey position in the records, but you certainly missed your friends.

“Sir—” One of them greets Theseus before they brighten as they see you. “Unofficial Former Great Leader!” Aurelia Henley beams as she sees you. Standing up, she bounds up to you quickly. “Are you finally coming back? Finally got tired of those stuff parchments, haven’t you?” And then she winks and bumps your hips together lightly. 

“Aw,” you grin. “I missed you too!” You try to shake Theseus’ handoff, when you fail, you offer him a nasty look that he only offers you a half smile in return and taps his pocket watch. 

By the time you turn back, Aurelia has adopted a sly, understanding grin on her face. “Well,” she says cheerfully with Cheshire smirk, “I won’t keep you.  _Do_  have a  _very_  lovely day, sir.

 _Good luck,_ she mouths as she returns to her desk. 

“Traitor,” you mutter beneath your breath lightly. If Theseus understands what your friend had been implying, he doesn’t offer any indication. A few others greet you afterwards, but despite your best efforts to stall, Theseus drags you to your destination in record time. The two of you pull up at the familiar door of his office.

It swings open to greet the two of you and slam shut when you’re finally inside. You’re pretty sure it’s locked and even an  _Alohamora_  won’t be able to unlock it.

It’s then Theseus finally releases you. You break away from him, desperate to put some space between the two of you. 

“Well,” you ask. “What was so bloody important that you needed to drag me  _here_?”

“Oh, I just need you to help me find the dark wizard Grindelwald and capture him. That’s all.”

You make a break for the exit, lock door be damned.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you’re more pissed now. pissed but smitten. absolutely smitten.

“You want me to do  _what?”_ you screech, jabbing a finger in his face. “I know you said I’m the only one you can count on — I appreciate that sentiment — I  _really_  do, but this is pushing it too far.”

Theseus gives you a smile. And  _no_ , you’re not letting him just bribe you into this with his smiles. “You’ll be fine, I just need you to do some paper-trail investigation.”

“On a  _dark wizard. The_ darkest wizard of all time!” Your voice continues to rise in pitch, edging on hysteria.

“Come on, [Name], it’ll be fine.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’ll tell my mother,” you threaten. Retired-head-Auror or not, your mother was a hurricane that did as she pleased and when she pleased. You were the only child and she adored you— There were times, like these, where you abused that love.”

He sighs. “This isn’t about  _you_ , [Name]. This is about the Wizarding War. We are trying to prevent a war here, we’re trying to save the lives of millions of wizards around the globe.”

“And you think _we_ can stop it? We both know what Grindelwald did. And if anything you should be trying to convince Dumbledore—”

He sighs. “We  _are_ ,” he says as he stands in front of you. “But we need to be acting, too.” Theseus takes your hand and suddenly your breath comes out in a rush. “ _We need you_.”

You shake his hand off and have a mental breakdown. 

“Fine,” you glare. “But I’m telling my mother that she needs to hex you in order for me to rest peacefully in heaven.”

Theseus chuckles. “I knew I could count on you, darling.”

_Fuck him and his pet names._

You sigh. “When do we leave?” you ask, mentally cataloging all of the things you would need. 

Theseus swallows a laugh and points to a very official looking key on his desk. You’ve been seeing those keys for the six years you’ve been working with him. Theseus has eight that he keeps personally. That one goes to the American Ministry of Magic.

“No,” you say. “There are things I need to do. Blanca needs a dogsitter, my work piles are going to skyrocket and all those  _illegal_ documents on my desk? Remember those?” You raise your hand. “Ones that could get me locked in  _Azkaban_?” you prompt.

Theseus doesn’t lower his hand. “I told Henley to look at Blanca in your absence and I’ve assigned appropriate people to, ah,  _organize_  your paperwork.”

You huff. “Must’ve really thought this one through, haven’t you, Theseus?”

He looks at you, a twinkle in his eye. “I need you on board with this, I wasn’t going to take chances.”

“Alright, alright…” You pause and look at him. “I won’t find myself escorted to Azkaban when I step back on official British territory…  _Right_?”

“Well, I’m sure your mother’ll break you out within a week.” He winks and his arm shoots out, wrap around you and lifting you up before in a headspin, you’re gone from the British Ministry of Magic.

You hate portkeys.

When you finally get over your vertigo, you find yourself pressed against a firm chest. You sigh, trying to keep yourself from sinking into his warmth as he anchors you to him with his arm. “Alright there, love?” he asks, something playful in his voice. You’re not focused on that though, just trying not to react to the hoarseness of his voice so close by your ear. 

You extend your arm forward and pitch your feet — still off the ground — forward as an indication for him to let you go, much like a child. Which was probably right considering you had all the temperament, pettiness and grudge-holding abilities of a five-year-old. 

One that Theseus Scamander was going to be experiencing for the next two days.

x

“Hello, these men are from British Ministry of Magic, acting as consultants and partners in our search for the dark wizard Grindelwald. The British unit will be headed by their Head Auror, Mister Theseus Scamander,” Seraphina Piquery says and the hushed murmurs of excitement immediately begin. 

 _Ah, good old war-hero fawning._ You were probably going to get a nice dose of jealousy when the ladies find out what Theseus looked like. 

x

“Hello, My name is [Name Surname] and I am a part of the British Ministry of Magic,” you say to the investigation team in front of you. You also say it in a non-British accent. Blame you for reading too much Sherlock Holmes as a kid, but the familiar sounding, or at least  _similar_  vowels of a Canadian accent is immediately endearing a few members of the group to you.

“So,” a woman takes a seat beside you at your cubicle. “Why don’t you have an accent like the Brits?”

You smile. “I grew up in Canada, my parents relocated to London when I was a kid. Never picked it up.” You shake your head. “It does get a bit… Annoying sometimes,” you lower your voice and glance conspiratorily at your British co-workers. Theseus in particular.

The woman snickers. Holding out her hand, she says, “Akecheta. I have a feeling we’re going to get on just great.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No uh. Other name?”

The woman hums amusedly with something lazily dangerous in her slouch. “Just Akecheta. Nothing else.” 

You grin. “Great. Nice to meet you.”

The beginning of a beautiful friendship.

( Or in which you were actually trying to be smart. Grindelwald was in here as Graves  _for months_. Someone got him in here.  _Someone_  in MACUSA. You need to find out  _who_. ) 

x

“So, we’re searching for any evidence that can lead us to Grindelwald,” Theseus says in the briefing meeting room next day. “Please come to us with any and all evidence,” he gives you a flat stare from across the room. “Dismissed.”

The crowd slowly trickles out and you hear some giggling from women on the way out. You hear some murmurs of “ _have you seen him?”_ and you immediately know how to approach your next set of MACUSA personnel. Women gossiped like no one else. 

You approach them already with a smile. “You know, it’s just a pity that he’s engaged.” Oh, dear Lord, please, don’t have Leta or Theseus around at this moment.  _Please_. 

A few of the woman stare at you, but you continue to walk beside them, undaunted. “But he really is eye candy,” you go on. “Especially the way he fits inside that suit—” You pause dramatically, normally you hesitate in approaching people like this (ew human contact, disgusting), but there’s really no better way to approach people like this.

“ _Yes,”_  one of the women exclaims, finally showing a reaction. “Honestly that suit—”

“Oh,” another woman joins the conversation as the group finally warms up. “I think I’d be more curious about what’s  _under_  that suit.” She gives you a mischevious glance. “You see anything?”

“How long have you been working with him?” the leader of the gang finally engages. You sigh in relief. It was going to be really awkward if she just stared at you like a part of your existence is offending her personally. 

You shrug. “Six years.” You wink. “I’ve seen  _plenty_  of things over the years.”

She beams, delighting the rest of the women. “Oh, you  _have_ to tell me.” She glances at you. “What’s your name again? I’m Lorrie,” she points at the trio behind you at the redhead, brunette and ravenette. “That’s Heidi, Addie and Mila.”

“Nice to meet you all, I’m [Name], from the British Ministry,” you introduce yourself, a smile plastered on your face. 

Lorrie laughs. “Yeah, we know. Let’s lunch, alright? You can fill us in on  _all_  those stories,” she winks.

You giggle, trying to ignore the general bafflement in your chest at interacting with these people. Didn’t your mother, the ever-respected Head Auror teach you better. 

~~Uh, no she didn’t, because you were definitely going to complain about Theseus and your general position in life to these women.~~

“Only if you have something to trade, ladies,” you say, hoping against hope that they’d have something good to say. 

She gives you a wicked smirk. “Oh,  _definitely_.”

You hope that there’s something about Graves. You didn’t approach these people at random — considering Graves is missing, there was probably no one tactless enough to talk about her right-hand man within twenty miles of Piquery, nobody other than  _airheads_  that is. Them and Graves’ own right-hand man.

x

“Hey Akecheta,” you say dropping by the desk of the dark-haired woman. “What do you know about pureblood clubs here?”

The woman hums. “Abernathy used to whine about their admissions, the idiot,” she scoffs and looks up. “Nothing other than that, why are you asking?” 

You sit down on the corner of her desk. “Well, we both know that in order to take over the world you have to have cannon folders right? Why not have willing ones? We both know Grindelwald’s ideology alongside general pureblood superiority.” You raise your hands. “It matches up.”

She smiles. “I like the way you think. There’s a speakeasy in Upper East Manhatten.” She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, you should check-out any membership bars in Upper East. That’s where all the rich assholes are. You wanna warrant?”

You shake your head. “Nah. I don’t wanna spook any of them.”

Akecheta nods, a thoughtful look on her face. “That’s probably a good thing.” She pauses and looks down at her paperwork. “Well, if I know anything, brass isn’t going to just let you waltz out like that if old Graves was anyone to go by. I’ll cover for you and let someone know you’re probably dead if you don’t show up by midnight.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll probably be six feet under if I’m not back by nine.”

She smiles. “I’ll be at your funeral. If you have one, that is.”

 _Loyal, driven. Attachment to Graves. Could be leading you to the wrong place on purpose._  You’ll go for lunch with the airheads and then head out to check out one of the bars.

The cafeteria is pretty loud when you enter. Theseus raises his hand toward you from one of the tables crowded by admiring fans and more than several hungry eyes. You jutt your chin sharply to the opposite side away from him and stalk away from him, towards the table of women you talked with before. From the edge of your vision, you see him raise his eyebrows and you feel his gaze on your back all the way until you sit down. 

You head over and Mila catches sight of you as she raises her head. “Hey, you!” she chirps as you sit down. 

“We’ve been waiting for you~” Heidi sings. 

“You  _have_  to tell us all about the British war hero,” Lorrie purrs. “The one who’s  _looking_  right at you currently.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No way.”

Lorrie waggles her eyebrows. “Yes way, don’t look, though. First rule: never look back.” She however just gazes forward in the direction you know Theseus is in. “It  _is_  a pity he’s engaged,” she sighs dreamily and you hum in response. 

“You have me at a disadvantage,” you suddenly say. “I don’t know  _anyone_  from here. Care to introduce me?”

Addie giggled, looking around, she leans over. “You know, we had an old security director — Percival Graves — was a real treat to look at.  _Especially_ when he’s brooding over a cup of brandy.  _Mm, that smoulder_.”

“Did he do that a lot?” you ask. “Sounds like an interesting man.”

You’d met Graves once or twice. Complete workaholic— Just like Theseus. He was handsome in a rugged way, dedicated to his work and his position. Though you could be a bit biased, because you always thought Theseus, despite his sadism, was the most handsome man you ever met. 

Lorrie twitters. “Oh, all the time, probably one of the reason we never realized Grindelwald took him, y’know? He was just always the mysterious, ruminate man with an  _aura_ , y’know?”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you say. “Theseus was always calm, collected, trusted-leader. A bit lacking in the emotional department. I always thought his soulmate was his work and maybe eighteenth-century wine _._ ”

Mila suddenly bursts out into snickers. “Graves marrying his beloved  _Mon cher,_ I can see it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “ _Mon cher?_  Am I missing something here?” 

“Oh, just a bar on Upper East,” Addie says. “You know, thinking back, there was this once where Graves stepped in front of one of his subordinates. You know, I always think that maybe most of in the security department always knew something was wrong. But, we just never questioned  _Graves_. Or maybe Grindelwald was just such a good liar.”

“Well, what’s happened has happened. And no one can change it.”

Those words were probably true for more than one thing. You hide a snigger, you really surprised yourself sometimes with your own wisdom. 

A gasp comes from Addie about five minutes later. “Oh my god, don’t look honey, but there are six feet of a delicious blue-eyed man in a suit who’s coming over.”

_Oh no._

You’re avoiding him. Yes, and you’re going to keep on avoiding him. You give the ladies beside you a tight smile. “Hide me?” you ask, rather pitifully. You just need to get out of the building to be able to apparate—

“You can count on us,” Mila promises, a knowing glint in her eyes.

The women laugh and stand up in unison, forming a barricade between you and the incoming man as you dash toward the other set of doors on the other side of the cafeteria. You’re out the door when you hear a sigh of “ _Mr. Scamander—”_

Grinning to yourself, you dash into the main hall then out of the large doors, coattails hitting against your legs.

x

The midnight rain in New York almost has you mistaking it for London. Then again, pouring rain is the same everywhere. Romantics think it’s great to be out in the rain— Nature and what not, personally you think billion of water droplets trying to blind you in a world of things you can murder yourself with is unnatural, to say the least. Not even Theseus Scamander can redeem this. 

 _Ah. You hate fieldwork._ You’re mildly hangover  _and_  soaked to the bone. 

 _The things I do for you, Theseus_ , you think as you enter the Ministry. The receptionist gives a surprised gasp as you stalk past her and into the meeting room reserved for the Grindelwald operation. The lack of chatter is a bit eerie, if only you weren’t so wet, you might be interested in making some noise.

To your surprise, the light is still on. Theseus is pacing around the table, hair tousled and jacket slung aside, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he stops briefly by the table to rummage through files. Eyes narrowed and concentrating, he starts moving around again — with the type of grace that came from authority and years of fighting.

He was always the most dedicated out of everyone. The first to take a hit, the first to dive into a pile of paperwork. The first to tell someone else to take a break but the last to actually rest. Whenever Theseus did something, it was always for the greater good. 

You watch him for a few more minutes, something soft blooming in your chest at the sight of him before you turn around and walk out, determined to do something for him.

_Ah, you were so, so smitten._

_Goddammit._


	3. three

You finally, _finally_  return to the Ministry at seven o’clock in the morning after zero hours of sleep, fully intent on imposing the misery you’re feeling onto everyone you come within three feet of.

Seven hours of drinking and maybe one piece of useful information. But one thing was for sure– Grindelwald wasn’t in American borders anymore. And that thought terrified the hell out of you.

If not in America, then  _where_?

England – your parents: your mother, who’s given her all for the fragile peace that’s being threatened. Your friends, your colleagues… France – then was England next?

You close your eyes against the warmth and the noisy crowd the reach you when you enter. Opening them, you shuffle down the halls and into the Auror department. Muttering a quick spell beneath your breath, your hair dries and your clothes no longer stink of alcohol ( _much_ , there was only so much even magic could do).

When you enter, the ladies greet you with a minx-like smile and a wave.  _Oh, well havoc can wait then_. Walking towards them, you plaster a smile on your face as you prepare yourself for the inevitable squealing.

“ _Oh, you **sly**  English!” _Lorrie fans herself as the others pretend to faint, back of their hand pressed against the foreheads. “You were hiding such a fine specimen from us.” She sighs dramatically.

“He was such a gentleman!” Heidi says, hands pressed together against her chest.

“And those intense eyes! I could just  _drown_  in them.” Addie squeals as Mila giggles softly, a blush adorning her cheeks. “Oh he could  _arrest_  me any day!”

Without meaning to, you burst out laughing. “Oh you guys,” you giggle. “This is what us girls at the English Ministry have to deal with  _every, day_.”

Lorrie hums. “Well, actually, I met his fiancee the other day. Leta Lestrange. She was lovely though.” There’s a thoughtful look in her eye, and unbidden, a tendril of jealousy warms its way into your heart.

“Well,” you say softly. “Some people have all the luck in the world.”

x

The creeps down by the bar,  _Mon Cher_  weren’t much help. They mentioned something about the overflux of MACUSA activities and the accidental illegal busts happening around the city. And the boy— His crazy mother—

You jump up from your cubicle, suddenly excited.  _His batshit crazy mother!_  She’d probably know… Somewhat… You sink back down into your chair and put your head in your hands.  _Batshit crazy, witch hunting mother. Yes._ But against your will, there’s a thrill of excitement and adventure running through your veins, the type of adrenaline that inspired you to become an Auror in the first place.

 _And look where that led you._  You laugh and the feel doesn’t leave.  _Ah, maybe you’re just a masochist._

You stand up and put on your coat before dashing down the hallways, excitement painting your cheeks a bright maroon colour as your eyes glitter with something like suspended starlight.

You should’ve known that the world wouldn’t give you nice things— Because the next thing you do is round the corner and slam into a very hard chest—

And freeze up.

Because A: you recognize that cologne. And B: you recognize the feel of Theseus’ expensive suits anywhere.  Now— Fight or flight?

Thankfully, he releases you from the burden about having to think hard about it. His hand clamps down on your shoulder as he steadies you, but it tightens once he gets his bearings and sees the awkward, semi-terrified smile you offer him.

Still awkwardly smiling, you try valiantly to remove his hand from your shoulder and found it impossible to shake off his iron grip.

“Well,” Theseus finally says, flashing his all-star, billion-dollar smile that had Lorrie and the gang swooning over him. “Here’s a face I haven’t seen in a while.” His tone is definitely accusatory.

You laugh skittishly. “What are you talking about?” You try and play it off. “Anyway,” you make a run for it as his grip loosens. “Gotta go! I need to chase down a new lead!”

Lightning fast, his hand reaches out to grab the end of your jacket. “Hold up,” he says, chuckling good-humoredly, looking at you over your shoulder as your heart begins pounding. “You good on your own? Sure you don’t need an extra pair of eyes?”

“One woman mission,” you say as you yank back possession of your coattail. “I’ll be fine!”

Wistfully, you remember a time where it had been you and him against the crimes of England. Him running after the adventure and you going along with him. That was probably how you’ve managed to become so deeply infatuated with him: the little quips, the dimples and the warm touches. His lessons on wandless magic that always led to you nearly getting cardiac arrest every time because of his chest anchoring you from behind; hiding in small spaces and being aware of every movement, every breath. And that once in Benson, where you’d been unprepared for the cold and he gave you his House scarf, one that had his scent sunken in every inch of the wool, as well as those words—  _Keep it, you look better with it than I do._

And then, at some point, some place, some time— Maybe, probably at that Christmas Party, you realized the dangers of your infatuation and Theseus’ bleeding heart and stopped trying to bleed him dry.

You don’t know if it’s the right choice.

x

“This better be good, Auror [Surname],” Piquery warns you as she settles down in the conference room alongside a majority of the other Aurors. There’s a pensieve in the center of the room, which she casts a doubtful glance at between you and it. Which is completely unfair since  _you_  were doing your job, and it was entirely innocent.

Well, good thing you were immune to the fear of being fired. Wealthy, war-hero mother who adored you was your means of going to places in life. Yes. Being a freeloader sounded  _great_.

“Don’t worry, Madame President,” you beam. “This is definitely worth your time.”

“I would hope so.”

“Alright!” you flail your arms around excitedly. Distantly, you hear Theseus chuckle in the background at your antics. “So, Grindelwald’s purpose is to reveal the wizarding world to the non-magic. Well, he’ll need supporters to do that, right?” you babble excitedly. “So, I visited one of the pureblood membership-exclusive bars in Upper East. Particularly,  _Mon cher,_  which actual Graves,” you accent.  _Maybe non-existent Graves, because let’s be honest_. “Frequented.”

Piquery nods for you to keep going.

“So, I went around and the cree— The gentlemen there,” you amended to Theseus’ sharp look. “Weren’t really much help.  _However_ , one of them mentioned something about keeping an eye on Modesty, which, for your information is one of Credence’s adopted siblings.”

MACUSA was so desperate to find a  _monster_  that they looked for him in every nook and cranny of the magical world. But what Credence Barebone is was a boy, which is why of all the places searched, MACUSA never once went back to where it began.  _Second Salem Church._

“I spoke to one of the siblings there, I told them I was with non-magic authorities and was looking for her brother. She said she saw him—”

Abernathy, an asshole looking guy pipes up. “So where is him? Get to the point!”

Before you can tell him to shut up because your story was getting to the good part, Piquery gives him a glare that lowered the room ten degrees. “Go on,” she says. “I want you to explain every detail of what happened.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” you drag the syllables annoyingly. “She told me that he came back and said he was going to look for ‘truth’. Now, what  _truth_  could an orphan boy  _possibly_  look for?” You gesture grandly. “Why, his origin of course! Why, any boy who was just told that he had magic after growing up under an oppressive witch-shaming woman would want to know how he came under her care! So, I, uh… Asked, where Mary Lou got him from—” You pointedly ignore Theseus’ look of disappointment. “And, well I figured out which orphanage he came from.”

With that, you brandish a name with a few charms in the air.  _Children’s Aid Society_. “So, from  _their_  records,” this time you keep out your method of investigation, “I discovered where Credence was adopted from. Thus, I went to the harbour and uh… With permission from Aketcheta—” You beam at the woman. “I extracted the harbourmaster’s memories and viewed it in a Pensieve.”

You wave your wand and one appears in the room.

You fast forward through the memory carefully, pausing a few moments at nine AM… As a dark-haired boy with a bowel cut enters the view.

A few people gasp.

The boy— Credence, glances around nervously as he empties a wad of wrinkled bills into the harbourmaster’s hand and buys a ticket on the  _Carpe Diem._

“So, this—” Even Seraphina isn’t able to keep out the wonder in her voice this time. “You,” her gaze snaps toward you. “You got me a—”

You smile victoriously. “I believe I just got you where the boy is going.  _France_. Credence Barebone is going to France.”

x

Theseus engulfs you in a hug the second you walk out of the meeting room. “Nice going, [Name],” he says by your temple. “You’re a genius!”

You’re frozen in his arm, cheeks flushing and heart racing as you pat at his back awkwardly. And as much as you want to sink into his warmth, there’s is a whisper of wrong at the back of your mind.

He disengages from you, completely unaware of your inner turmoil. Whistling cheerfully, he walks at a slower pace than he usually does, making sure you’re keeping pace with him. He’s abnormally close to you, shoulders bumping periodically. When you’re in the main reception, he says, “Let’s go out for dinner.”

You head snaps toward him, incredulity written all over your face.

He gives you a good-natured look. “My treat,” he offers, because you are a petulant child—

Or, not right now anyway.

“I can’t,” you say decisively and turns around as you begin walking again.

He falters behind you. “Tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Day aft—” he suddenly stops. “[Name],” he says as he reaches out for your hand. You pull it away. You  _hate_  it. You suddenly realize.

You  _hate_  how he treats you. The touches, the pet names, the gentleness. You  _hate_  it because that’s how he treats  _everyone_. This is Theseus Scamander, ladies and gentlemen and you couldn’t  _take_  it because you aren’t that type of person. You  _aren’t_  the selfless type of person who takes every little bit they can and are willing to sit in silence forever, who can be happy just by watching the one they want.

You can’t do that.

When you love, you want it returned whole-heartedly, not a fraction, not half.  _All or not at all_. At the same time, you still… Cared for Theseus. Cared for Leta and if you couldn’t control yourself then you were going to control your environment. And that was the reason why you started drawing away, why you submitted that transfer.

“Is this about… What happened that night?” And the gates of your heart burst open, all of the ugliness and the truth seeps out, every last bit. Because he  _remembers_.

You always thought he didn’t, because he made no reaction towards your lips and the hickeys on your neck the morning after. And you’d  _thanked Merlin_  for it.

“I can’t do this,” you tell him as you step outside, chin raised and eyes glassy. “I can’t. And I’m going to tell you this because you remember. I wish we could just be friends. I wish everything can go back to how it was before the kiss.” He jerks sharply at the spoken evidence of what happened.

You bite your lips, shaking. “But it can’t!” you say, as the New York wind cuts across your cheeks. “And I’m sorry for it! I wish I can reverse time and stop the kiss from happening, maybe stop  _all of this_ ,” you flail your arms again and this time it’s no longer humorous. “But I can’t!” You say as something like understanding enters his eyes.

Your heart cracks.

“I’m not… That type of person, Theseus,” you say, and there’s nothing apologetic in your tone. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head and you turn, walking down the steps of Woolworth with only the bitterness in your heart and the chill in the air as your companion.

Deep down, it hurts—

That he never called for you to come back.


	4. 4

The trip back to your housing is a blur. Because for the first time since… Forever, you’re crying. And it isn’t just cute little sniffles that actresses do either. It’s becomes huge, heaving sobs as you enter the apartment.

You cry some more in the shower, where every breath hurts. And you try to brush the hurt off like the grime that washes off with the strawberry shampoo, fruity but with none of its sweetness.

You finally descend into bed as an exhausted heap, curling into yourself beneath the white sheets. The room is unfamiliar and cold, but you haven’t slept in over twenty hours and you give yourself away to the inky tendrils of the darkness willingly.

Completely unaware you would wake up in a different place.

x

Or perhaps, some part of you does, because after you’re gone, a silvery shape leaps out the window, off to seek help.

x

“ _Be gentle, she’ll wake up—”_

…

“ _You’re going to stuff a sleeping woman in **that**?”_

x

A woman bursts into Woolworth the next morning. She’s clearly well-off by the quality of her leather boots and the wool of her trench coat. But what draws Leta Lestrange’s attention is the silver hair, narrowed [coloured] eyes and the loud, authoritative voice as she demands to see Torquil Travers.

While she would’ve usually just left this to the receptionist, Leta’s feeling particularly charitable this morning at the sight of the receptionist pushed to tears. Walking over, she presents herself.

“Hello, ma’am,” she says, and the familiar accent of the Queen’s country draws the woman’s attention. “My name is Leta Lestrange, I’m his second-in-command, can I help you?’

“Oh yes,” the woman returns in a sharp, clipped voice, and for a moment Leta understands why the receptionist is in tears. “You can help. You will tell me  _why_ , my daughter’s Patronus came to me as a distress signal, last night midnight. In  _France,_  when she’s supposed to be  _here,_  in America.”

Leta looks up in surprise. “What’s your daughter’s name?” she asks, even though there’s a sinking feeling in her gut that she already know who it is.

The woman gives her an imperative stare. “[Name] [Surname].”

There’s a vague sort of horror rising in her gut because A: this is the former Head of DMLE and one of the most powerful witches in the world. And B: you, who was a major investigator in the Grindelwald case as well as one of the most valuable assets had just been  _kidnapped_ , possibly by Grindelwald, which meant that there was a large possibility that Grindelwald already knew that France was compromised.

But the panic is also stemming from the fact that Leta  _knows_  you. Passionate, fierce and so loyal, so driven. Everyone loved you. Despite everything— If anything, if  _anyone_ , you didn’t deserve this.

“I’ll bring you to Travers,” she says. “But he’s in a private audience right now with Piquery. I don’t know what I can do for you about that. What about The—”

“No,” the woman says firmly. “Take me to him. If you can find Scamander, get him here too. I want to know how  _exactly_  my daughter got kidnapped so close to the American Ministry and how he let it happen.” The woman finishes through gritted teeth.

Leta leads her— Madame [ _Surname_ ] ( _by Merlin, [ **Surname** ]!) _to the large set mahogany on the top floor of Woolworth. It’s heavy and hulking, the etchings on it clearly luxurious. To this day, Leta still hesitates to knock— Because it reminds her too much of her father, or France of her childhood home and the silence, the dark hallways. But [Surname] clearly holds none of Leta’s reservation because with the flick of a finger, the doors slam open with a heavy  _bang_.

Leta’s five feet away and off to find Theseus when the screaming begins. [Surname]’s voice is loud and powerful in her rage, there are a few softer voices that seem to be trying to quell her.

There’s a grief in her voice, smothered by the anger. Leta, briefly, for a single moment, wonders if this is how the older [Surname] was coping with the loss of the younger.

x

Her shoes makes a sharp clicking sound against even the carpet in Leta’s urgency. Stopping sharply in front of the meeting room, she squares her shoulders and opens the door with the sort of strength [Surname] just opened the other door.

Theseus’ face is the first she sees, his handsome features are pulled tight with concentration — broken now by Leta’s entrance — as he was helping another man with something.

“Leta?” He makes his way toward her instantly, hand on her shoulder, unwavering support. That was why she fell in love with him. “What’s wrong?”

Leta lowers her head, her words caught in her throat, suddenly unsure how to tell him about… About  _you_. Theseus cared about you and she was afraid of how he would react.

“ _Leta?”_ His voice is more urgent now. “What is it?”

Willing herself to move, she raises her head slowly and staring into Theseus’ eyes, she says, slowly. “[Name]’s… Gone.”

His eyes widen, denial already worming his way into his heart. “What?” he says, relaxing. “She’s just in one of her tantrums, we had… An argument.” It was clearly more than that, by the hesitation in his voice, but Leta  _needs_  to make him understand.

“No, Theseus,” she says. “She’s been taken.  _Kidnapped_.”

And he jerks, lurching himself out of her arm, and the loss of his warmth feels like a stab to her heart.

He freezes, still in the room for a moment, eyes glassy and empty, before he looks up. “When?” he asks, a single breath against the sudden chilling air. There’s a stillness in the air, the slight crackling of electricity before a storm. Leta wishes he would yell. She wishes he would let her know what he was thinking, instead of this silent, unpredictable anger.

Leta swallows. “Last night, Theseus. Her mother’s here now, talking with Piquery. [Surname] says that [Name]’s Patronus came to her— From  _France_ , do you think—”

“France?” he asks, eyes a little wild.

“Yes,” Leta says. “Do you think—”

He brushes past her without a second word, leaving her to call out his name as he’s across the room with a few large strides and out the door.

Leta stares at the door. And just for a moment, for a single moment, just before she follows him. There’s a sense of sudden, aching loss, in her heart.

~~But maybe, that was wrong. Maybe Theseus was never hers, to begin with.~~

x

_The first time you have an interaction with Theseus Scamander, famed Head of DMLE is because you’re sleeping on the job._

_You admit. That was a stupid move, and back then, you actually **wanted**  to be an Auror._

_A loud and stern_ ahem _jolts you awake. You flail your arms as papers fly everywhere, falling to the ground alongside you. You’re not even awake before you’re scrambling to gather your report from the ground._

_Someone sighs, and you’re abruptly hauled upright by the arm. The man murmurs something and your papers right themselves. You turn around with a wide-eyed look, not because you’re surprised by the display. You can do it easily enough, you mother — despite all her prestige for being an excellent Head of DMLE was brought up under a strictly wandless culture, and she’d passed some of it to you — but because outside of your own household, you’d yet to see someone do it so easily._

_You instantly wince, however, when you see exactly **who**  it was that interrupted your nap. Theseus Scamander. War hero. Your mother’s successor’s successor’s successor. Give or take a few. One of the most powerful wizards in the world._

_“Good morning,” you say. “Sir,” you add at the glare he gives you._

_“Impressed?” he raises an eyebrow before shaking his head at you, tucking his hand into his pockets. “If you ever want to that, you should probably stop sleeping on the job, hm, Junior Auror [Surname]?”_

_If he knows you’re your mother’s child, he doesn’t give any indication. It’s not as if [Surname]’s an_ awfully _common name, but plenty of people bear it._

_You laugh nervously. “I’m sorry, sir. Just uh, tired. That’s right. Very tired.”_

_He gives you a flat look. “Aren’t we all?” He looks you in the eye, blue eyes peeling away layers. “Are you interested in a promotion beyond the Junior position, [Surname]?”_

_“Of course, sir,” you say. “Definitely.”_

_“Then you should get used to being tired.” He pauses. “And being honest. Tell me why you thought it was okay to be sleeping, all of your behaviour in the last three minutes indicates you’ve been lying.”_

_“Maybe I’m just a naturally twitchy per—” The protest is out of your mouth before you can stop the words. And that’s the first no-no in your mother’s class of Interrogation Prep 101. You finish the sentence off with a nervous laugh._

_He raises an eyebrow at you, leaning against your desk lazily, inclining his head as if to say: I have all the time in the world. “Go on,” he says easily._

_You finally relent. “I finished early,” you say. “And I didn’t know what to do. Happy?” This definitely fresh behaviour, but the petulant child inside you is demanding entrance into this conversation and honestly, you don’t care enough to stop it._

_“Definitely,” he says. “A fifty thousand word report completed two weeks early,” he murmurs, perhaps to himself, before looking up. “Perhaps you aren’t so hopeless, after all.” He leaves after a wry grin. It’s only then that you realize your cheeks are flooded red._

_Darn it._

x

Oh god. Someone,  _please_  tell you how you got here.

Your wrists are getting rope burns from squirming too much (you might’ve made a joke about aha,  _kinky,_ if you weren’t so confused), and you can probably break them— Surprise surprise, all those years forced to do fieldwork wasn’t so useless after all, you can probably untie the knot—

“Hi,” a woman abruptly says as she bends down in front of you. Everything about this woman is imitading— Leather jacket, short hair, dark—  _fierce_ eyes. And oh, that wand pointing at you. The hand is firm and the position is solid.

“Hi?” you attempt, but it comes out like the squeal of a dying whale and ends in a questioning tone.

“My name is Tina Goldstein. I’m an American Auror,” she says. “And I need you to help me catch Grindelwald—”

Your eyebrows shoot up so high you suspect they might have found God.

“Wait, wait wait,” a male voice joins the conversation. A man with tousled red-hair and a face dusted with freckles holds up his hands. He’s cute, in an unassuming way. “Shouldn’t we untie her first?” he asks. “We are, uh, asking her for help…”

“Newt,” the woman— Tina, Tina Goldstein begins. Her head is cocked and her words are said very deliberately. “We still don’t know if she’s a threat—”

“Uh,” you wave awkwardly. “I’m still here?”

Two pairs of eyes find you. Then to Tina. Who sighs with a hint of murder.

Clearing her throat, she starts again, “As Mr. Scamander was saying, we are in need of your help to capture the dark wizard Grindelwald and find a boy named Credence Barebone.” She looks at you with those fierce eyes of hers, glittering with something like trapped firelight.

She had you lost at the ‘help’ part. Weren’t you already helping? Why did she think you of all people could help? Also— “Just a question,” you say as they both nod. “Scamander, as in—  _Theseus Scamander?”_

The man looks mildly surprised. Boyish features pulled into puzzlement. “You know him? He’s my brother.”

If anything, you’re name has now just become Perpetual State of Confusion.

“Aren’t I… Already helping?” you ask mildly.

Theseus’ brother leans down in front of you. “You are, miss, but I need you to look for someone in Paris. Credence Barebone. Please, he’s in danger.”

There’s some sort of fragility in his voice. That and the way he trips over his words from speaking a tad bit too quick. For a moment you can’t fathom how he could possibly be related to Theseus.

Cocky, confident Theseus who uses suave words and the charming smiles to get what he wants. Theseus who heads into everything with squared shoulders and a raised chin, who leans his chin on his interlaced knuckles and crosses his legs. Relaxed because he always has the upper hand and he  _knows_  it.

And then there’s this stranger in front of you, with his rumpled hair as opposed to carefully combed curls, tweed jacket instead of a smooth suit. And most of all, who mumbles instead of the clear, low voice that gives commands.

You open your mouth again and his eyes harden in a familiar way. “Please. I’m not asking you to choose a side. I’m not asking you to kill anyone. I’m asking you to let me help a boy who’s trapped and lost. Please. That’s all I’m asking of you.”

There. That’s the resemblance. The righteousness and the morality: Theseus saw the Auror position as a means to enforce justice. But this stranger in front of you – he’s just like Theseus. Maybe not so strictly oriented like him, but Newt Scamander is trying to find justice for that boy. The boy that the ICW might kill.  _Don’t you remember? They couldn’t find him because they didn’t see him as a boy. He’s a boy, [Name]. He deserves this much at least._

You relent, finally. “How do I know I can trust you?” you ask.

He sighs and rummages around one of his pockets. He pulls out a picture. “Is this okay?”

That’s certainly a picture that Theseus has. Finally, you relent. “Alright,” you say.

He brightens. “Then let me untie you, Miss.” He whips his head up to give you a quick look. “You won’t hit me when I do, will you? Tina likes to do that.”

You give him a flat look before you burst out laughing. Relaxing slightly, he unties you.

You rub at your mildly bleeding wrists.

“Oh!” he says in surprise. “Right, terribly surprised about that. The rope was a bit harsh, I’ll heal for you.” With that, he takes your wrists and applies a gentle balm with long, graceful fingers. “There you go—“ he croons.

And then he suddenly stops. Looking up at you suddenly, he clears his throat, the tips of his ears a bit red. “Oh, I-I p-probably should’ve asked before touching you, so sorry.”

You laugh again. For a kidnapper, he’s surprisingly sweet. “It’s fine, Mr Scamander.”

He blushes again at that. “O-oh, uh, please don’t call me that. Just Newt is fine. Mr Scamander is my brother.”

No, actually, he really isn’t. You haven’t called Theseus that in forever.

But then again, Newt didn’t need to know that.


	5. 5

“ _I’m sorry, I no speak French,”_ you offer to an overly touchy man as you make a hasty escape, hoping that the French said with a faked English accent was terrible enough that he’d let it go. 

You glance around, and once you’re far away enough, you look around before asking another woman in perfectly fluent French where Place de Furstemberg was.

Ah, Paris. 

France.

_Français._

Where your mother dragged you from shop to shop, forced you to read French book until you could understand them. And oh, that one memorable moment where she and your father forgot you in the city market and only remembered three days later. By then, you were getting free bread from the nice bakery lady and knew enough swearwords to outyell a sailor.

_Parenting of the year._

You shake your head and continue down the path until you happen upon the familiar flag. The first time you came here with Theseus and the vines whirled you away, you remember muttering something like  _no wonder people think we eat human hearts for fun_.

Theseus laughs.  _You’re the only I won’t yell at for saying something like that, [Name]._

Despite your heart leaping, you’d given him a nasty glance.  _My mother would murder you in your sleep if you so much glared at me._

He laughed harder and slung an arm around your shoulder.  _What’s it like living your life, I wonder?_

You break out of your reminiscence as the elevator stops on the main floor, stepping out, you glance around shiftily before you change your body language. The skip in your step becomes less pronounced and more feminine. You school your features into something more calm and less of the maverick you are, or the utter authority your mother emanates. 

It’s normal to be awed or nervous in the French Ministry of Magic.

It’s not normal to be skipping or strutting around like you own the place. 

People under disguises get caught often because the change is too big or because they aren’t familiar with the new identity. The best way to hide is to be a version of yourself that anyone can become. A subconscious part of the human identity that everyone has— Subtle changes: a soft lilt, the way you stand, the dictation you use. 

Smiling shyly, you go up to the blonde woman at the reception.

“ _Good afternoon,”_ she says, giving you a quick one over— You’re so glad you decided to buy that awful dress from the boutique. “ _What can I help you with?”_

“ _Good afternoon,”_ you reply. “ _I need a visitor pass to the Archives. It’s a research project for the Animal Department.”_ You add in a shifting awkwardly in your high heels move and the woman’s gaze immediately becomes sympathetic.

“ _Ah, oui. Do you have your credentials, mademoiselle?”_  she asks patiently.

Your rummage around your pockets for a few minutes. And when you find nothing— Your eyes widen dramatically as you force a few tears to your eye. “ _I’m so sorry—”_  you stammer. “ _I must’ve forgotten it at home again.”_ You wave your arms as you burst into tears to the annoyance of the few behind you. “ _The research is due today— Oh no, I—”_ You stumble a bit from your faked mental breakdown and wince at the pain from your heels. 

“ _It’s okay,”_  the woman says — kindly now— and you feel a bit bad for lying to her. “ _We all have those days. Tell you what, take the pass and bring it back after you’re done.”_ She gives you a smile and slides an insignia across the counter.

Still teary-eyed, you thank the woman profusely and compliments her until she blushes before the man behind you clears his throat loudly, making you dash off.

_Well. The easy part’s done._

_Now you have to figure out which one of the hundreds of ships to England that Credence could have been on—_

You shake your head as you step into the space between the various bookshelves.  _Credence is probably born around 1901-1903, which means that the time he boarded a ship would’ve been around the same time._

Running your fingers across the spines idly, you give each of the shelves bored gazes. Then you jolt, as if suddenly hit by cold water—

_1901 to 1903…_

_Wasn’t that around the same time that Leta said she came to England—?_

_On a **ship**?_

The realization crashes into you like a truck.  _Why Credence has the Obscurial— Why he seemed so powerful, so full of magical potential—_ A pureblood family. Of course.

One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight no less. 

With that new knowledge guiding you, you set out on your path.

x

_Ugh. Heroism never got anyone anywhere, you think, as you struggled to breathe. The chill of the winter air burned against your face and inside your lungs. Blood is still gushing out of your arm and you’re probably caked in blood._

_Standing against a brick wall wasn’t the most comfortable way to die. At least when your mother threatened to smother you with your pillows you were still in bed._

_Gritting your teeth, you try to shift your weight to the good side of your body._

_Last time you checked, the enemy was long gone— Chased after the hostages, who were, one by one, being apparated back to the Ministry for treatment._

_So, no threat of opposition, you can logically attempt to stitch yourself, but you were pretty shit at healing spells. So there was always a potential that you’d bleed out in the time you wait for a miracle to happen and enable you to perform the necessary spells._

_On the other hand, you glance at the pile of parchments beside you. Those documents detail every single trade agreement between the mole and the dark wizards. You’re pretty sure the only one who’s even thought of them amidst the adrenaline rush is you— Which meant that if you died, these would just bye-bye to existence._

_Also— You and Theseus spent weeks of restless nights trying to rescue the hostages, more often than not only sleeping when the caffeine expires. (That one embarrassing moment when you fall asleep against his back, as the two of you pored over the paper spread across the floor.)_

_Sighing, you bite your lip and rip a piece of your shirt. Biting back a scream, you create a temporary gauze for yourself and shrink the pile before shoving them into your pocket._

_It takes you around fourteen hours to get back the base set up for the particular operation. By the time you’re there, you’re alright delirious and while the cold’s helping with your wound, it’s definitely infected._

_Could you regrow an arm? You wonder, feverish as you stumble into the camp._

“ _[Name]?” Aurelia’s voice is the first you hear and her voice appalled._

_“No honey, it’s fucking Jesus.” You can’t muster a glare, but you tried._

_“Oh sweet baby Jesus,” she cries and then bellows in at a volume that breaks your eardrum. “We got a situation here, people. My incredibly, amazing friend has just returned from the dead. Holy crap, oh my god someone get the fucking director!”_

_“Shut up, you’re loud as fuck, woman—” you slur._

_But in the next second, you’re engulfed in a pair of warm arms. And you close your eyes, because now that the danger and the adrenaline have worn off, you realize you’re safe. Safe._

_“Theseus,” you rasp._

_“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here.”_

_“There’s a pile of desized parchments in my pocket. They’re supposed to be dealing records—”_

_He sighs. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he says as he looks to the sky, and you think he’s looking to the Lord for strength, but to your surprise, his eyes — bright blue, azure blue, sky blue — look a little wet when he looks at you again. He smiles. “You’re okay,” he says, hands warm and steady against your shoulder. “And you came back, that’s the best thing I could’ve asked for.”_

_You close your eyes again, tightly, as he lifts you up into a carry against his chest. “Will I be able to regrow my arm?” you joke as he shifts the weight off your arm, and your head lolls._

_“You’ll be okay,” he promises. “I’ll make sure of it.”_

_You’re not sure of what happened next, but at one point, you do remember distinctly saying— “I thought I wouldn’t make it back” — quietly, just as you enter the medical tent._

_His grip tightens. And in a low voice, as he sets you on the bed and hails a medic he says, “Then I would’ve gone looking for you. And I would’ve torn the world apart to find you.”_

_x_

_He hasn’t **stopped**_ , Leta thinks, at the edge of the entire commotion. Not for a single moment. Theseus hasn’t stopped since you’ve been taken— Not a single second.

She lingers at the edge of the door, listening to the argument.

“ _Finding her should be our top priority, Madame President—”_ She’s never seen him like this— Ruffled and angry, curls wild and suit rumpled.

 _“With all due respect, Mr. Scamander, while Auror [Surname] is definitely a huge asset to the investigation and her assistance is tremendously valued, finding Grindelwald is our objective and we cannot sway from it.”_ Piquery replies cooly. Ice cool perfection, not a single strand of hair out of place. 

 _“[Name] is a person— Not an object. You’re just going to let the kidnapping of an Auror go because there’s a bigger objective?”_ He cuts himself off. “ _Besides, you’ve seen how valuable she is to the investigation. She made more leeway in three weeks than the task force did in months!”_

_“There is a perfectly capable woman looking for it. We’re both familiar with the famous Madame [Surname], are we not? Scamander, the best of the best is already looking for her. And don’t think for a moment that you can insult the investigative capabilites of this Ministry, Scamander. This conversation is over.”_

Theseus comes out of the confrontation fuming. And he storms right pass Leta.

x

Hours later, when he calms down, they finally sit down and have a proper talk.

“I’m sorry,” he says, blue eyes empty but he’s once again a steady presence beside Leta, once again the man she loves. “For, for being like this.” He gestures helplessly.

Leta bites her lips. “[Name]’s strong,” she offers. 

Theseus laughs, blue eyes cast skywards. “I know she is,” he says. “But— But what if it’s not enough?” He shakes his head, something uncertain in his gaze that makes Leta’s heart clench. “And she’s always been the trouble-attracting type. Maybe she’s always gotten lucky, but—”

She cups his face gently, and pulls his head against her shoulder, hand running through his hair. “It’ll be okay,” she murmurs. 

“But what if it isn’t?” Theseus mutters brokenly, closing his eyes. 

Leta looks forward, as she continues stroking his hair, almost mechanically.

“ _God,_ I’m the one who dragged her into this in the first place.”

x


	6. 6

_Corvus Lestrange._

_This makes no freaking sense._ Is your first thought. Illogical, but let’s gather your thought first. Okay, first of all, the boy was dead. And well—  _No_ , he  _isn’t_ , if Credence is indeed the boy. Then— Leta looks nothing like him.

Oh, wait. He’s from a different wife. 

But there’s something  _wrong_  with the revelation. Something that doesn’t fit. Spidey-senses, you’d say. But you’d gotten no shortage of lectures from your parents, Theseus, co-workers,  _Travers_ about your intuition (even if it’s usually right).

You cast one last glance at the name and decide that you were going to break into the Mausoleum next. Oh, Theseus and your mother were going to be enraged.

Speaking of your mother…

You’re already internally wincing. You already cast an anti-track spell on yourself. And as long as you don’t cast your Patronus again, your mother shouldn’t be able to find you. But you didn’t want her to worry—

She always put you first. Your mother before she was an Auror. Your protector before she was England’s protector. And you—

Oh. She must be out of her mind.

But the second she comes, the second  _Madame [Surname]_  comes, Grindelwald will make his move. You won’t make your mother fight. Not again. You won’t thrust her into the fighting again. 

 _( The hardest choices are the ones that others make for you,_  you can hear her voice, see the steady lines on her face, softened by the wrinkles beside her eyes.  _Never tell someone else what you think is best for them._

 _I’m sorry,_  you think.  _But I won’t let you do this for me._ )

You sneak out of the Ministry and squeeze into a crowd in the elevator. You don’t look a hair out of place, and Aurelia can say what she wants— Because hair askew, skirt wrinkled and everything undecent happening at the end of a work day is the natural state of any employee. You fit right in with the grumbling men and the women rolling their eyes every few seconds.

Snickering, you step out of the elevator and into the Parisian Magical streets, the last notes of natural lights are flickering out just as the will-o-wisps begin to fly lazily through the streets. Snapping your finger, your jacket smoothes itself, as does your skirt. Grumbling to yourself, you stretch awkwardly.

Going along your merry way, you gaze with uncontained wonder at the lights and the shops, unabashedly staring at the cute cafés on every single street. This is why you don’t see the next person you happen to run into them.

It is also why you do not anticipate the amount of damage your frame cause on the man. Instead of hard chests or groans of pain, you hear the sound of cracking bones.

“ _Holy shi—”_  is the first thing that tumbles out of your mouth. “Are you okay?!” you ask frantically before realizing that the person in front of you likely doesn’t speak English. “ _Excusez-moi, monsieur? Are you okay?”_

A shaking man gets up. “Yes, yes,” he says dazedly in English with shaking hands. He seems fragile, but there’s unbridled power buried amidst brittle bones, even as he seems he would be blown over by a sharp gust of wind.

But you recognize him— Hogwarts textbooks— Oh, isn’t your week just  _full_  of surprises? 

“ _Nicholas Flamel!”_  you exclaim and he quickly lifts his head (without a shortage of cracking sounds first).

He hushes you quickly, but the action of lifting his fingers to his lips actually takes a few seconds. “You—” he narrows his eyes. Before throwing his hands up (very, very slowly) in surprise. “ _Yes._ [Mother’s Name]’s daughter, are you not? Oh, Albus has mentioned you before, too.”

_Good god, when’d you get so famous?_

But amidst all the appal, there’s a very nagging fear in your stomach. Does Nicholas Flamel know that the American and English Ministries of Magic have listed you as a missing person?

If you’re found here in Paris, of your free will and having freshly broken into the French Ministry archives, there are going to be problems. Regardless of your name, your mother and people willing to give you the benefit of doubt.

Besides, you’re no stranger to office politics. You’re not sure if Tina Goldstein is here on official merit, but you hope the woman has enough sense to lay low and keep her head down.

As the man keeps rambling on about his relations to your mother and your old Transfiguration teacher. A very nefarious idea comes over you. If you could just play your cards right…

“Monsieur Flamel,” you say carefully. “I’m looking for someone. Do you think you can help me?”

x

_“What happened to your love affair with the hospital bed, love?” Theseus asks as he grabs you by the coattail. “Not so fast,” he waves a finger in your face._

_You’re not a wild child by nature, but you definitely want to explore. Coffee shops, bookshops, antique shops— Juniper is a small town filled with culture. And you wanted to know about every inch of it._

_“Really?” you ask. “I’ve been discharged for two weeks. I’ve underwent four **additional**  examinations because of  **you** ,” you jab a finger into his face. “Really?”_

_Theseus grins absolutely shamelessly, no guilt at all. But he does soften. Sea-green eyes that roar beneath sharp cliffs soften into something teal, with curling warmth from a fire amidst winter’s day. “Fine,” he relents. “But you’re not leaving my sight.”_

_You make a noise._

_Theseus smiles pleasantly. “No arguments,” he says, an undertone of the authority that he uses to keep DMLE in order._

_Ever unfazed, or perhaps too relaxed after your recent ordeal, you grumble. “What about that paperwork, Theseus? Those won’t go away by themselves.”_

_He gives you a close-eyed chuckle. “What was that?”_

_There’s a gulp of horror and wisely, you shut up._

_A few moments of pregnant silence goes by and you glance at him. “Can we go now?” you ask impatiently._

_Theseus chokes and begins laughing, his head tilts and brown curls bounce on top of his head. You swallow and turn away. He stops just in time to see you walk away, but with a few long hurried strides, he’s back by your side._

_Over complete pettiness, in the first bookstore you pass, you end up buying a book — oh no, scratch that — you end up purchasing questionable literature that has Theseus blushing (oh how the tables have turned)—_

_He coughs a few times before he gets the will to speak. “I didn’t know you were… Interested in that sort of stuff.”_

_You hum, stuffing it into your pocket._ It’d make good kindle for the fireplace _, is your thought, but outwardly you grin. “Oh I am,” you say. And with a completely creepy smile, you add. “Very much so.” You take it out of your pocket and waves it around his face. “Definitely.”_

_You figured he’d leave you to your lonesome after that, but he only seems more determined to follow you after it. You go through store after store, more than several bars of chocolate that Theseus had ended up buying for you after seeing your longing gaze._

_You supposed it **kind**  of made up for the additional examinations. _

_The two of you are just stepping out of your last shop when a man comes running out of a shop behind you._

_“Hello!” he hollers._

_You stop and turn, aware of the protective grip Theseus has on your shoulder. Keeping you from going more than arm’s length away. “Us?” you cock your head, hair bouncing._

_He beams. “Yes, you!” he exclaims as he comes to a stop before you. Theseus, too, takes a step forward, diminishing the distance between the two of you until your shoulder’s pressed against his collarbone._

_Without warning, he presents you with a fresh bouquet of flowers that you didn’t think existed out in the wintery wonderland here._

_“I couldn’t help myself, you know,” he rambles excitedly. “Such a lovely couple, so amorous in love passing my shop! I just had to add to the scenery,” he says excitedly. “Please keep it. There’s nothing in it, I swear. It’s completely free of charge!” With that, he leaves just as swiftly as he appears._

_The two of you watch awkwardly as he hops up the steps of the shop excitedly and the door slamming behind him—_

_And you have the fright of your life when it slams open (making you duck awkwardly into the crook of your boss’ shoulder). “Have a good night!” he says in a very suggestive voice before— **Slam!**  (you wince) The door goes shut again._

_You cough and peer up at him—_

_Shit._

_Too close._

_You step back and cough again. “This was a date?” you ask._

_And there’s something like shock and another emotion frozen on Theseus’ face that you can’t decipher. And before you realize that you’ve made the situation awkward, and attempt to disastrously disfuse it, you sneeze._

_It’s not exactly a cute sneeze. But it’s hard enough that the frozen emotions escape and Theseus laughs. Raising his arm, he unwraps the woollen scarf he has around his neck and before you can protest, he hooks it around your neck. The momentum brings you close as he begins to wrap it around your neck, and it’s all you can to keep breathing—_

Keep it cool, [Name], your boss doesn’t need to know the big fat crush you have on him.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breath steady,

Pulse steady.

_As he finishes wrapping his scarf around you, the arch of his hand lingers against your pulse spot. Nothing longer than a single moment, but maybe it’s your imagination, but when his hand finally falls away. You think that there’s a hint of disappointment in the handsome angles of his face. But it’s gone in the next moment and you’re momentarily transfixed by the curve of his jaw against the dim streetlights._

_Theseus smells like ink and late-night papers, a bare hint of ink and something wild. Masculine and safe, a perennial pine in the cold night._

_And that evening, with the scarf around you neck and his hand curled around the crook of your elbow, you couldn’t think about anywhere else you’d rather be._

_x_

Somewhere else in the world, Leta Lestrange walks down the hallways of the American Ministry. The sound of her heels are amplified in the silent hallways and the wooden floors.

But there’s steel in her eyes and a purpose inside her heart.

She opens the door without knocking, and unflinchingly, she says.

“Theseus, I think we should talk.”

x


	7. Chapter 7

In hindsight, sneaking in alone probably wasn’t a great idea.

You’d left Nicholas Flamel’s house at the crack of dawn. Snuck into the creepy old building—

You remember pain blooming on your cheek, the taste of stone and mud. A spark— And you can’t even feel fear before terrible translucency envelops you. In fact, it doesn’t come at all— There’s a strange sense of peace that befalls upon you, you let it swallow you with its gaping jaws and sharpened teeth. You don’t know  _why_  you do, but you go without protest and everything fades to a blur.

x

“ _Wake up.”_ A gruff voice demands. Oh, good old American upper management.  _Always demanding, what are the chances that he’s going to be a forty years old man._

You ignore him. This is probably the best sleep you’ve gotten in a long time. 

You drift a bit endlessly—

But the next thing you see when you open your eyes—  _do you_? — is the tail of a brown jacket. With no small amount of difficulty, you open your eyes wider. It blurs — a watery filter that makes the splinters the light into fireworks. You yawn once, and it’s then you feel the hardwood of your desk — a classic office table. 

_No, that wasn’t right._

_You don’t use your cubicle anymore._

The background twists and shifts into something else— Ah. Woolworth with its tall windows and marble columns. You were there…

“[Name]?”

A familiar-sounding voice asks, and there’s an incredulity bubbling inside you because you  _can’t remember—_

 _“[Name],”_ that voice again, this time laden with insistence and seriousness. And you blink hard, trying to remember. “I swear to  _God, [Name].”_

 _“_ Theseus!” you breathe, a little breathless.  _How could you have forgotten— “_ What’s up?”

And then you shut up in horror. You’d replaced  _what do you want_  with  _what’s up_ , and there was absolutely no sense of hostility in your voice—

Wait. Are you seriously getting worked up over a dream?

But Theseus seems mildly confused too, he blinks for a second, before he breaks out into a grin. “Nothing. Still here, [Name]?”

You shrug. “I feel asleep.”

He grins. “Nice.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce with a roll of your eyes. After that, you drop back onto the hard desk unceremoniously.

Theseus makes an amused sound. “You should go home, [Name].” 

You ignore him. But the offer of a soft bed is too tempting. “You’ll apparate me?” you ask hopefully. 

Theseus stares at you for a second. And there’s a disbelief in his eyes and desperation fighting with rejection. You take his prolonged silence as a no. Your expression sours and you drop back to your position.

Theseus is the one who sighs this time. Fingers slide into your hair and strokes your tresses gently. “I will,” he says and pulls you up and into his chest. 

You give him an unimpressed stare. He offers you a smile in return and holds you close. You’re too tired to dissent and just sinks into the warmth more. You fall asleep again before the rush of it all happens once more. It might be your imagination but just before you’re set onto the bed gently—

There are long elegant fingers that tips your chin and a gentle press of warmth and a murmur of something against your lips. Before it is gone, a single figment of your imagination.

x

“Finally awake?”

“What?” you retort automatically. “Mad it didn’t happen the first time around?”

There’s a sigh— And oh wait  _that’s_  familiar. Your head snaps toward the man on the other side of you and  _yeah,_  that pompous air of a put-together aristocratic man couldn’t be ignored. Well by the devil— Percival Graves.

“I’m guessing you aren’t a rescue mission then?” he asks, voice so  _astonishingly_  familiar. 

You give him a dry grin. Theseus always told the two of you to place nice, but he isn’t around to dictate this time. “I was under the impression you did not exist for the last… Couple of months,” you settle, nodding. He scowls, you grin.

“So,” you say. “Any plans on how to get out?”

Graves give you an  _are-you-serious-look_  and when you don’t flinch, he sighs. “I’ve tried—”

And then he freezes. Your eyes widen and the utter  _terror_  streaks through you like acid in your veins. Your hands shake in your restraints tied against the metal chair. You can’t scream, you can’t do anything but you register the spell from his lips and then this time, the  _horrifying_  peace that smothers you whole.

_Imperius._

x

You come back up gasping in pain and horror as you try to blink away the tears at the wounds on your arms. Inflicted by yourself. You’re alone this time, and as far as you can tell— There’s no one around. You can’t muster the strength to call up your Patronus anymore, and you’re pretty sure wards are set up to prevent your mother’s from finding you, she’s rather infamous in that department. At this point, you don’t care about glory or justice anymore. You want your mother, you want safety,  _you want to get out of here_.

You bite back the tears as the pain surfaces once more. You bend your head, trying to gather the last remnants of your magic close. The western wizard civilization might have built the empire surrounding wands and spoken incantations. But your mother’s family has an eastern Asian origin that makes them privy to more incantations, more  _variety_  of incantations— Sometimes even  _better_  incantations as a whole.

With everything you have, you do the one spell your mother made sure you knew since childhood. 

“ _What is it, child?”_ A crane perches in the centre of the room. You can’t feel it, and it speaks in a language that you can’t hear, but can understand. Your bond with it isn’t as strong as it is with your Patronus. But it’s strong enough, your mother told you. Strong enough for even Grindelwald.

“ _Please_ ,” you rasp, voice rough from disuse and screaming. And it doesn’t ask what you will offer in exchange. It can peer into your mind, into your soul and your heart. And it takes something precious in exchange.

_A single memory. The happiest._

The shackles disintegrate, your magic reimburses itself. You get up on wobbly legs and the marrs on your forearms have healed, but there’s a faint trace of a scar. You’ll worry about those later, but first—

You scramble out of your room and quickly casts a tracking spell. You follow it with quick steps and slams into the room.

“You!” Graves says and there’s almost a sort of awe in his voice.

“Yes me,” you say, smiling creepily. “Did you miss me? Well, I don’t give a fuck, but mission abort, Director of Security. Let’s get the fuck out of here."

x

You make it to Nicolas Flamel’s house a little worse for wear. Wearily, you knock on the door. It sparks gold, wards recognizing you to allow you to enter.

There’s chatter as you go in, you and Graves supporting each other with weary limbs. It took no shortage of effort and concentration to cast a believable illusion over his bloody ass as you walked shuffled through Paris.

You step into the room primly. “Hi,” you say as all the chatter goes silent. “Did y’all miss me?” you continue in a southern accent.

On your shoulder, Graves hacks out a laugh.

“Is that  _Director Graves?”_ Oh goody, a genuine reaction out of the woman who pointed a wand at your throat within seconds of your meeting.


	8. 8

“Please, Mister Graves,” Newt pleads as if he’s trying to appeal to a stubborn mule. “You  _need_  to eat.”

Percival Graves raises his chin (indignantly?) and offers Newt a glare that says clearly he can shove the soup up you know where. “I won’t be, thank you very, Mr Newton.”

Well, now it’s just a petty between two cats — Graves had taken to calling New ‘ _Newton’_  because Scamander is Theseus — there’s still an ache at your chest that doesn’t go away.

“Mister Graves, please,” Tina intervenes, sounding displeased and exasperate.

“No, I won’t be.” The displeasure quickly turns to hurt as Tina leaves with the air of a kicked puppy at Graves (understandable but still) petty behaviour.

You roll your eyes. “Eat,” you say sweetly. “Or I’ll freaking shove the entire thing down your throat, spoon and all.”

He takes it. “Fine.”

Newt gapes and you beam. “I had no idea you liked me so much, Perce!” You can sort of see why Theseus likes nicknames now. 

Graves finishes his sludge with a somewhat dignified annoyance before setting it down with an unexpected grace but still with a loud clang. You snicker, he gives you a glare, brows furrowing. “Am I correct to assume that you’re acting on your own accord, [Surname]?”

Way to spread salt on the wound. You shrug. “Well, you don’t see Theseus around, do you?”

He sighs. “Isn’t that a miracle. Before you… Made a nest in the archives, I always thought he wouldn’t let you out of his sight because he would combust without you. Or is it the other way around?”

Your affections for Theseus wasn’t  _exactly_ hidden… And you  _had_  met him before Leta. But then Leta came along and you quit. You raise an eyebrow. “Are you trying to say something?”

“[ _Surname_ ].” 

You wave your arm. “ _Stop calling me that!”_ you wail in agony. “That’s my  _mother_. You know, I’m pretty sure you have to call her  _madame_  or  _dame_  now? Gah.”

His mouth drops open. He stabs a finger in your direction. “You— _Madame [Surname]? **You’re**  her daughter?”_

You swallow a smug grin and instead cocks your head innocently. “Uh, yeah. You know her?”

Graves’ mouth drops open in offence. “ _Know her?”_ he demands. “She’s one of the greatest strategists and Auror’s to have ever lived! One of the youngest to be promoted and to date, one of the few women to have that position!  _Hundreds_ of cold cases were solved in her direction and thousands of national security threats were handled by her.”

Despite everything, the warmth of pride flushes through you. You had been five when she became Head of DMLE and you remember those late nights and the relentless ranting about those  _men_. And you’re genuinely so, so proud of your mother’s achievements. If not for—

“Well,” you say. “Any idea on how to get her off of my track momentarily?”

“ _What?”_

x

_We need to talk._

“Talk?” her fiancee echoes. “About what, Leta?” 

She steels herself and walks toward his desk. “I know you’re already filing stuff that’s due next week. We really need to talk. About…” She sighs. “About this, about  _us_ , about [Name].”

To his credit, Theseus doesn’t try to insult her intelligence by asking her what she means. “Have a seat,” he nods and crosses his hands in front of him. 

“Has anything ever happened?” she asks.

He looks at her, something contemplating in his expression.  _He’s trying to decide on what he wants to tell her— If she’s worth fighting for._ And Leta has to try to shove down the grief, has to try to  _force_  down the anger. 

He finally decides on something. “Once,” he says and Leta has her mouth opened. “Before I met you.”

It should be a reassurance— They haven’t done anything, Theseus hadn’t felt compelled to chase her. But somehow, _before_ ,  _before._ It feels like an admission Leta has already lost. Because there was something someone once told her, something that determined Theseus’ life:  _before-[Name]_ ,  _[Name]_ , and  _post [Name]._  

Theseus sighs and gets out of the chair, skirting around the desk, before approaching Leta like she was a wounded animal. “If this is about her, I— Nothing happened, Leta. Nothing ever happened.”

“Cut the bullshit, Theseus!” He jerks back.

She hadn’t meant for it to sound like that, but there’s a bitterness in the back of her throat— Ostracised in Hogwarts, she found Newt, only to have him leave her— And then Theseus, when he proposed—

It’s then that she realizes she’s crying, there are tears streaking down her cheeks. She looks at the pictures on his desk. Her and him, Newt and HIm, Percival Graves and him, his family and her— A sly smile and intelligent eyes. Clearly candid because she isn’t looking at the lens and it never struck Leta as odd, that she had her own frame when Theseus had been in all of the rest.   _Distance yourself from this,_  she thinks,  _this isn’t about you. This isn’t a fight you can win—_

“Leta,” he says, something that sounds like  _goodbye_  in his voice. She isn’t his, she never was. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you— I, I—”

She sniffles, feeling frightfully small. “You’re a real piece of work, yes, Theseus,” but she looks up at him. “But… I think what we had is real and I think that you tried your best, but—”

Theseus pulls her into a hug and when they pull back, she slips off her wedding band with trembling fingers and set it down on her desk. “You can’t continue like this,” she says. “You can’t keep ignoring this, you can’t keep  _indulging_  yourself because [Name]’s flighty. You care about each other, and you  _need_  to talk it out. For both of you  _and_  me,” she says firmly. 

“Leta—” he reaches for her.

“No,” she turns and musters as much dignity as she can. “You need to work this out yourself. And, I think we should spend some time apart.”


End file.
